


Pieces Of Me

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Brother/Brother Incest, Confusion, Incest, Kissing, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-13 18:37:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14754138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: Following the amnesia after his incident at the shipping yard - let's say that, even when Peter is reunited with Nathan, he still keeps forgetting. Sometimes he is okay but, every so often, when he wakes up, he's back to square one. And things get even worse when he mistakes his own brother for his boyfriend. Set during Season Two. Contains incest but no graphic scenes.





	Pieces Of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic. Posted in 2008 to Livejournal.

_"It's as if you known me better than I ever knew myself - I love how you can tell - all the pieces, pieces, pieces of me..."_  
**Ashley Simpson - Pieces Of Me**  
  
After being discovered by Irish gangsters in the Cork shipping yard three months ago - shivering, near-naked and trapped in a crate - Peter's health had took a sharp descent. Nathan, returning to the same hospital he was unknowingly brought to _himself_ , had pleaded with doctors for a reason _why_ this was now _happening_ all of a sudden. They had concluded that severe trauma could lead to a lack of reminiscence, a patchy state of affairs within the mind.

In layman's terms, it was short-term memory loss. And he was to be plagued by bouts of amnesia, periodically, since that very day. But today, undoubtedly, would be the _worst_ day yet. When his brother wasn't there to help him and catch his falling, _unfathomable_ thoughts.   
  
"Come on you guys," the images and voices filtered through Peter's mind, "The iPods are in this one." Another, melodic, thick Irish accent then called - a softer tone raiding his auricles - like a harpsichord set against the harsh _thudding_ in his eardrum, blood rushing to his weary head. But where beachgoers think they're hearing the _sea_ in those shells, Peter can't make out whether it's that night's _rain_ \- the pelting, tapping thuds pinging on the back of whatever he's bound in - some sort of metal cell.

And the thunder then crashes, frightening him silly. He _begs_ of the gods in the sky - he wants to be _reminded_ that the world hasn't left _behind_ the now timid and confused Peter Petrelli. With shortened hair, now clamped to the wall - who _was_ he? Would this band of thieves be able to acquaint him with the truth?

They had cracked open what he later gathered, from those that were there, to be a jaded, burgundy shipping crate. They flooded the floor; surrounding him completely. And no, they didn't know _any_ of the answers to his questions. They just wanted a _fight_ , the scruffy little shits - and, if it was trouble they sought, they'd arrived on the _dot._ The wind howling in his face, against his weather-beaten cheeks, Peter launched his most scathing attack yet.  
  
Sweating, trembling, the ex-nurse shot up from his bed and gasped, still feeling a part of the dream. It took him a _painfully_ long time to find his bearings, laying hands upon his clothed legs and chest and realising that he must have dozed off in a residence that did at _least_ seem _mostly_ familiar to him. It looked like he'd mislaid his memory, _again_. "Oh fuck," he muttered in despair, "I don't know who I am here... Must retrace my steps." That was how he _usually_ recovered from the plight of amnesia though, in honesty, Nathan often stayed to check in on his progress and help him through any difficulties.

Earlier, when Nathan Petrelli had spied his younger sibling asleep, he detected an opportune moment for a shopping trip. Preliminary goods and groceries only, for this once successful president-to-be was practically now a _recluse_. But _everybody_ had to eat. Paper bags stuffed under his arms, the said politician was at the bottom step of their building, many minutes away from making it to Peter in time. With an elevator out of action, he prayed he wouldn't be too _late_.

Peter's personality may not have been a threat, but his curiosity _was_. After searching through chests of drawers with intrigue, throwing important letters into the trash, unable to recognise that they were addressed to him and under his name, Peter was _baffled._ But there was _one_ constant factor which kept creeping in. Seeing himself in photo albums, beside a certain _someone_ else, it suddenly dawned on him who he _was_.

Because he saw _himself_ \- he understood this _clearly_ because of a small reflection he saw beside his pinboard (littered with old, long-forgotten appointments). Even if he still _couldn't_ have told you what he looked like  _without_ seeing the mirror. And, then, there was _another_ gentleman in the bulk of these pictures. A tanned, handsome Italian, for whom he had feelings he couldn't quite explain.

Removing several photos from their sleeves, he placed them gently onto his wrinkled white pillow - with a couple of the smaller pics falling down into the folds - and studied them intently.

Sitting comfortably in the sheets, he suddenly felt an inexplicable pain which caused him to jolt. Bobbing back and forth, his feet were firmly tucked underneath his body to stop him violently lurching forward every time something struck a chord. He was having _flashbacks_ to the event in the picture. There was something especially _enticing_ about the way in which they were hugging, embraced in these poses.

He adored this man and, for sure, didn't yet know _why_. It may have been better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all - but, right now, Peter didn't even know  _what_ he may have lost. Was this guy his brother? Or was he a _lover?_ His heart was aching with anger and confusion. He had no inkling to the answer. Either way, he sensed an extremely _important_ relationship with the man. This problem was one he would _have_ to work out quite quickly, as Nathan was already at his _door_ , scraping the lock with his key.   
  
"Peter?" he cried, entering the apartment, "I didn't realise you'd be awake... Are you okay?"

It was definitely the man from the photo, thought the younger man - albeit rougher, with the dirty brown beard of an obvious drunkard.

He wondered what could have been so _harrowing_ to change he who he saw on the glossies in front of him, suited and tied, to this bottle-a-day bum. Actually, no; he _knew_. It must have been _his_ fault - _Peter's_. Nathan had dedicated the past few months of his life doting on someone who couldn't even remember his _face_ , or anything else, and probably spent the rest of his time relaying everything back to him. Enough to take it's toll. The poor fellow - Peter shouldn't let on that he'd _forgotten_ it all again - Nathan looked so purely wiped out.

"Honey," Peter stammered. Something was _definitely_ out of sorts, realised Nathan. "I've been flicking through some of the photo albums," Peter smiled at him, nonchalantly. Doing his best to keep up the charade, he seized the loose albums and gathered them up, his short-term recollection being so lacking that he could barely think of where to _put_ them. He sprang over to the hall, and stood by Nathan's side, feeling agitated from not _quite_ knowing whether the bearded man really _was_ his boyfriend.

"Uh, how was your day?" he decided to say, kissing him lightly on the jaw. Yes - this could become _quite_ an uncomfortable situation.  
  
"I know how low you've been lately - things have been really tough," the somewhat impostor then sighed, "I wanted to make it up to you, and show how much your help means to me." He nestled into the crook of Nathan's neck and continued to snuggle as the older brother simply switched _off,_ in shock.

Planting further kisses, Peter swathed himself in the softness of his facial fur. It wasn't as if they hadn't cuddled _before._ But not like _this_. And nothing could affright Nathan quite like the nurse's tongue breaching his buttoned-up lips, chapped from the New York winter, because it was so _cold_ out. His tongue was flicking around in a mouth that it _never_ should have entered. This _couldn't_ carry on.

"No, don't," the second man moaned, "Peter, you're sick..." Yes - some could argue in _every_ sense of the word.

"I'm not," Peter cried, "I'm doing this for us - I want us to be together again!" Refusing to give-up, he kissed him again and grabbed at his ass.  
  
The sacks rustled and, wrestled from Nathan's grasp, they dropped to the floor with food spilling out everywhere. Fruit would be bruised, eggs would be cracked, but what did it _matter?_ "It's just... that I think I'm suppose to love you - and I don't _know!_ " Peter wailed against Nathan's shoulder, "Please, tell me _who_ I am..." Ex-congressman Petrelli wasn't cruel enough to break Peter's reality. As well as upsetting his fragile state of balance, telling him of their fraternity would finish him off for good.

He compromised and kept up appearances, spending a short while as Peter's lover - until the next time, which _surely_ wouldn't be long. There was a _method_ to his madness. He needed the purest of love; somebody to _always_ be there for him, somebody to _always_ explain. Nate owed him that much. And he learned to kiss him, passionately and _hard_.

It wasn't the first setback his condition caused him - nor would it be the _last_. But the road to recovery was harsh, dark and pothole-filled. They took it slowly, learning at _every_ step along the way.


End file.
